


Cylon Beautiful

by haganenoheichou



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Apocalypse, Cylon, End of Mini-Series, F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenoheichou/pseuds/haganenoheichou
Summary: This body hasn't had time to experience so many things yet. It is pure, crystal white. I can feel my eyeballs roll inside the sore sockets of my vessel as I look down, the mist clearing from my field of vision, and see the rest of my body, submerged in milky white. I study the long tubes lining my birthplace, and suddenly I know what each one is for. I never learned it. It's so convenient.





	Cylon Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote years ago that I just discovered on my hard drive and decided to publish because why not? I used to be (still am) a huge BSG nerd and Number Six will forever be my favorite Femme Fatale.

I wake up to the sound of my own breathing. Although I suppose my breath does not belong just to me – there are numerous others who inhale with the same pull of the diaphragm, the same depth. And exhale like I do – in a burst of carbon dioxide that scratches my virgin throat as it fights its way out of my unused chest. My first breath turns into a gasp; although I cannot tell whether I’m surprised to taste the dry air again, or whether it’s just my weak body getting adjusted to the alien and yet so familiar impulse of _in... and out..._

A voice inside my head tells me to take deep, slow breaths, _in... and out..._ and I comply with the gentle order, the guidance, the comfort of which this body has never experienced before. This body hasn’t had time to experience so many things yet. It is pure, crystal white. I can feel my eyeballs roll inside the sore sockets of my vessel as I look down, the mist clearing from my field of vision, and see the rest of my body, submerged in milky white. I study the long tubes lining my birthplace, and suddenly I know what each one is for. I never learned it. It’s so convenient.

 My arms and legs are taken over by electric impulses, and I move. I want to put clothes on. My brain tells me it is the next logical thing to do. I stumble a little, the pathways reinstating themselves as I try to get out of the tub and into the serene stillness of the room. Someone extends their hand and catches me, steadying me. My eyes seek out my helper.

She looks just like me. Smiles like me. Her voice is as soft as mine, almost cooing, and she goes: _in... and out... in... and out..._ Again, and again, the mantra sends sparks of electricity up and down the inside of my body, and I heed her words, now more of a request than an order. I breathe, and she lets go, sending me walking towards the archway on my own. I don’t look back at her; I know what she looks like.

My bare feet make a peculiar sound as I float down the corridor, watching others who look like me smile and bow their heads in recognition. I stop being ashamed of my nudity because they all know what I look like naked. I paddle bravely towards what I know is my hall – we don’t have rooms. Rooms are too small for us.

 I slip into the comfort of my bed, and an arm pokes out from underneath the pristine blanket, running over the curves of my body as if something could have changed this time. It hasn’t. Satisfied, my companion withdraws his arm and pulls the blanket down completely, to reveal his own replica of the many I’ve seen walking down the corridor. He smiles at me and snakes his embrace around the edge of my floating ribs. I settle into the warmth.

“What happened?” He asks me gently, not wanting to shock my new ears with the harshness of echo.

“Mission accomplished. Blew them away. All of them. One by one,” I reply, and my voice sounds just like the one that woke me up. “I had time to see them float into space before I died this time.”

“Really?” He props himself up on one elbow and raises an eyebrow. “How was it?”

I take a moment to consider my answer, and I can feel possible alternatives for answers zipping up and down my silica pathways.

“Beautiful,” I settle.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

 _Beautiful_ , a disembodied voice that sounds just like me echoes, sending ripples through the ship.

 _Beautiful,_ a chorus of twelve, again and again, calls out to me like the voice of God himself.

 _Beautiful,_ I reply to Him, and the echo dies down, slowly, a physical release from the momentary nightmare that was death.

I live again.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some love?


End file.
